garbage all the way down (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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hydratrashmeme2015-09-09 07:23 pm
trashmod) wrote in hydratrashmeme2015-09-09 07:23 pm
Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch
Holy shitballs, look at us go. Welcome to Captain America fandom's resident wretched hive of scum and villainy: ROUND THREE. AKA Bad Guys Do Dirtybadwrong Things To Your Faves, AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. As usual, BLANKET NON-CON AND NSFW WARNINGS apply: just assume going in that everything in this landfill is unfit for human consumption.
Rules in brief: don't be a jerk except to fictional characters, warnings for particularly fucked-up garbage are nice but not required, thou shalt not judge the trashiness of thy neighbor's kinks unless thy neighbor is trying to pass off their rotting banana peels and half-eaten pizza crusts as a healthy romantic dinner for two, off-topic comments may be chucked out of the dumpster at management's discretion, management's discretion decrees that omegaverse, soulbond AUs, D/s-verse, non-superpowered AUs, and dark!good guys AUs are off-topic.
[Round 1] [Round 2] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained bygreenkirtle)] [Round 3 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]
Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.
Rules in brief: don't be a jerk except to fictional characters, warnings for particularly fucked-up garbage are nice but not required, thou shalt not judge the trashiness of thy neighbor's kinks unless thy neighbor is trying to pass off their rotting banana peels and half-eaten pizza crusts as a healthy romantic dinner for two, off-topic comments may be chucked out of the dumpster at management's discretion, management's discretion decrees that omegaverse, soulbond AUs, D/s-verse, non-superpowered AUs, and dark!good guys AUs are off-topic.
[Round 1] [Round 2] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by
greenkirtle)] [Round 3 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.
FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (7/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-14 02:16 am (UTC)(link)Bucky says, “These are like two percent alcohol,” but accepts one anyway and pops the lid off with his teeth to take a long slug.
Sam squints at him and raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that cannibalism?”
“The metal bit or the White Russian?” Bucky wipes his face with the back of his hand like he might have a milk mustache. His beard leaves a pink mark on his skin.
“Whichever you think is funnier.”
“Let me tell you later.”
They’re all still standing in the entrance. Bucky has Sam’s jacket draped over his metal shoulder. Sam is resting his head against the door, cradling the boxes of White Russians in his arms like they're a giant, pampered dog, watching as Bucky finishes his drink in under a minute and tucks the empty into the deep pocket of his jeans. Steve wonders if he should tell Sam that Bucky can get drunk after all. Unless Sam already knows. Unless Bucky sent him a postcard about it.
“We playing for real?” Steve asks. “Or are you both too yellow to get creamed by me?” His voice sounds hollow as a leg full of White Russians.
“Look.” Sam lifts his head from the door. “I know I’m not winning on this account, but I gotta say: Pictionary doesn’t work with three people either. You form into teams. You guys really gotta get another friend so we can do these nights correctly.”
Steve fakes a wounded look. “Natasha’s my friend!”
Bucky, however, looks genuinely wounded. “I have a lot of friends, douchebag. I just can’t bring them over because they’d recognize Captain America in the flesh.” He punches Sam softly on the arm.
“Fine, fine. Next time I’ll wear one of those rubber George W. Bush masks.”
“Those what?” Bucky takes one of the boxes of drinks from him and heads to the living room.
“I know you know who George W. Bush is. He was a popular Halloween costume for a little bit there. You both slept through some dark times.”
Steve takes another box. “We’ve lived through dark times too, you know.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but nods in commiseration. They both follow Bucky, who’s now camped out on the floor, knees pulled up and spread, Sam’s jacket still over his shoulder.
When Steve asked, before Sam arrived, if Bucky remembered to get the game out of the library, Bucky said, “Didn’t need to. Did you know it’s just words and drawing? You can get words off the internet and we already own pencils and paper.”
“Wouldn’t it be fun to do it the official way?”
“Well, that doesn’t sound like Steve Rogers. You all right in there?”
Bucky was lying on the couch with his head on the arm and one booted leg kicked up onto the back. He didn’t appear to be doing anything over there, but who knew. Steve was doing visual espionage on his laptop in a chair he’d dragged in from the kitchen.
He looked at the blurry panorama photograph he was supposed to be evaluating. He’d circled one spot in red and added a question mark.
“No, I’m fine, Buck. Just thought that’s how you’d want to do it.”
“This way’s fun. I chose the cards, so it’s like I’m cheating.” He rolls his head to the side and smiles at Steve. It’s tight, but wide, and the corners of his eyes do crinkle.
“Fine, I give. We can use my colored pencils too.”
“Don’t waste your nice pencils on my account. I bought crayons. It’s gonna be great.”
The crayons in question are lined up neatly on a coffee table Bucky found in the trash. One-hundred and twenty of them, ordered into a neat and accurate spectrum. There’s also a pile of face-down index cards, three pencils, three clipboards full of paper, and a little plastic hourglass.
Bucky points to where he wants Steve and Sam each to sit, so they’re in a triangular formation. Sam picks up a salmon-colored crayon from the row and rolls it between his fingers. “Awesome. Do you just own a jumbo pack of Crayola or what?”
“No.” Bucky flaps a hand at him until he’s supplied with another drink. “My friend Katarina used to do quality control for Crayola. She gave 'em to me.”
“What?” Steve picks up a cornflower blue, just to have something to hold. “You said you bought these.”
“Oh, sure, like that’s an interesting story. Come on, you’re ruining my façade.”
“Uh, I hate to also ruin your façade, but, ‘My friend gave me a box of crayons,’ isn’t much of a story either.”
“Yeah, fucking bitch and moan at me. Everyone’s a critic. Which! By the way, I did think of the three people problem, thank you very much.”
“Oh, my bad.”
“It doesn’t have to be teams. Both other people get to try to guess. Whoever guesses right’s allowed to take a drink.”
Steve puts his crayon down, careful to line it up with the others. “I assume we’re also tracking who wins in the end.”
“No. That’s no fun. I want to have fun, and that isn’t it. So come on. Whoever can beat me in arm wrestling gets to go first.” He rolls the sweater sleeve up on his left arm, and grins at them both.
Sam sighs, and passes him two White Russians, motioning to his own teeth to make it clear what he wants. Bucky bites them open and distributes them evenly. “No takers?”
Steve and Sam both shake their heads, and Bucky says, “Great! I go,” and pulls a card from the stack.
Pictionary seems to be a much more leisurely game than Apples to Apples, even if it involves a lot more frantic yelling. Sam draws a can of gasoline that looks like an elephant or a purse, or—and Bucky crumples his face up when he says this—phallic. Bucky draws Steve for the word, “husband,” but Sam, who knows it’s Steve, yells out insulting guesses, and Steve, embarrassingly, doesn’t recognize his own face.
Wedding cake. Extension cord. S’mores. Wooly mammoth. Mirror. Exercise. Et cetera. And then Bucky starts only drawing Steve or himself.
He draws Steve for “macho” and Steve throws a corn chip at him (Bucky was hiding a bag of corn chips under the couch as a surprise). He draws Steve for “pilot” and Sam says, “Kind of dark, man,” but Steve and Bucky both giggle, looking each other in the eye, and Sam’s tipsy and Bucky is something and both of them are infectious, and things feel normal. Little icicles hang off of Pilot Steve.
Bucky draws himself for “myth.” He draws himself for “sleep.” He draws himself all beat-up and gory for “bruise.” It’s when he draws himself for “puppet” that Steve says, “I thought you wanted to have fun.”
Bucky frowns at his drawing of a little Winter Soldier in the goggles and mask.
Sam says, “Yeah, moratorium on pictures of anyone in this room or I’m out.” Gently, he takes the paper from Bucky’s hands and stares at it.
“Though you are a better artist than I thought you’d be.”
“I’ve got a ton of talents.” Bucky stuffs a fistful of corn chips in his mouth. When he’s done chewing and swallowing, Steve’s in the middle of trying to illustrate “protestant.” Bucky says, “Sorry.”
“That’s fine,” Steve says, and Sam says, “Yeah, we’re good,” and it’s difficult to read whether Bucky believes either of them.
That’s fair. Steve can’t even read whether he himself believes Sam, toward whom he feels a rush of guilt and protectiveness. He definitely shouldn’t have invited him over when things were this tense. He was hoping to break the tension, not mire Sam in the thick of it.
Steve draws an outline of California and Bucky correctly guesses, “Drought. That’s drought. You won’t stop talking about it.”
Sam draws a cluster of bees and Bucky guesses, “Bees,” and Steve guesses, “Extinction,” and Bucky guesses, “Bumblebees,” and Steve guesses, “Threatening,” and it turns out that it was a swarm. It was a swarm of bees.
The game ends when they run out of drinks, which happens pretty quickly once they decide to abandon Bucky’s rule, due to the fact that almost no one’s guessing anything right and so almost no White Russians are getting consumed.
Part of Steve is surprised that Bucky doesn’t offer to sleep on the floor this time and let Sam share the bed. But it’s clear that he’s feeling ginger and self-conscious about the whole Calling Himself a Puppet Possibly as a Passive-Aggressive Dig at Steve and Steve’s Newfound Celibacy slip-up and wants to make everything look as normal as possible.
So Steve goes to get the sleeping bag and Sam follows him. Thank god. Once they’re out of view of Bucky, who’s slipping his crayons back into the box one-by-one, he grabs Sam’s arm, hustles him into the bedroom, shuts the door most of the way, and throws a blanket over both of their heads. There’s not a ton more he can do to muffle their conversation.
“This is not the right way to build a blanket fort,” Sam says, not in a paranoid whisper.
“Shhh. I need you to keep your voice down.”
He does this time. “Are we being bugged?”
“No, just. I don’t want Bucky to hear.”
“Ominous.”
“Does his face look wrong to you?”
“What?”
“Does his face look wrong?”
Sam moves his jaw around. He closes his mouth and breathes out slowly through his nose. “Look, the guy drew himself for the word 'puppet' and didn’t seem to think it was kind of weird.”
“Yeah.”
“And he didn’t seem to be joking.”
“No, he didn’t. So his face looks wrong?”
“Why do you people think that’s a real phrase?”
“I know it’s not! But I’m just checking. Thank you. Did you have fun besides that?”
“Yeah. That’s not a question you need to ask under the blanket.”
“Oh. I guess not.”
They use teamwork to throw the blanket back onto the bed.
In the living room, Bucky’s still putting the crayons away, and shows no signs of having heard them. He’s working on the green crayons, and mouthing something to himself. He pauses, and looks up at Sam with half a smile. “Hey, I decided.”
“To do something about your ugly mug? That’s great man.”
“Shut up. Which one’s funnier. It’s White Russian. I like your Russian jokes better than your metal jokes.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time I dedicate a stand-up routine to you.”
Bucky leans into Sam’s space and wraps an arm around one of his calves. Sam doesn’t startle. Bucky leans back. “Sorry. I’d hug you like a normal person if I weren’t on the floor.”
Steve unrolls the sleeping bag. He tucks Bucky’s “husband” drawing into his pocket when no one is looking.
Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (7/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-14 03:35 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (7/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-14 11:50 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (7/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-14 03:56 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (7/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-14 04:21 am (UTC)(link)(also: cap!sam!!!!! eeeeeeee!!!!!!!)
Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (7/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-16 09:15 pm (UTC)(link)